The Man Who Waits
by EleanoraPoe
Summary: John is struggling to cope with his life post-Reichenbach until a madman in a bowtie and tweed comes looking for Sherlock. And unbeknownst to John, they seem to be meeting in the wrong order...Spoilers for TRF!
1. Prologue: Waiting

**A/N: Thanks to Sir ACD and the original writers of Doctor Who for creating these characters. Even more so to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for adapting and causing me to love these characters. They all own them, I do not.**

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The Man Who Waits

Prologue

Life goes on, bit by bit. This isn't the first time I've found myself living alone in London, so I have no excuse to crumble now. No excuse. I've kept busy these last few weeks by picking up extra clinic hours at the hospital, when I'm not fixing up my new flat or sweating through therapy sessions with Ella. I visit the shops every day now, sometimes twice, to do battle with my nemesis, the bloody chip and pin machine. And when in doubt, there's always daytime telly. These aren't the most noble or exciting things to do but they take up time and they fill up the dead space in my mind, and I can pretend that this is progress. Life goes on, at least that's what they tell me, and I'm doing the best I can.

But now you are right in front of me, and all that careful self-preservation comes crashing down around my ears. It's just your silhouette of course, captured in blue spray paint on the brick wall, still wet. The design is simple but it has to be you, with those wild curls and that billowing coat like an action figure. The cheekbones aren't quite right but I doubt the artist knew you personally. Across the top of the image, where your eyes should be, is a yellow stamp that reads "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes".

I can't say I'm a fan of this street art phenomenon, at least not since that time with the ASBO. I've been running in to this new graffiti all over London, and I wish the paintings weren't so hard on me but they are. The first ones appeared in touristy places like the West End and Trafalgar Square, but they quickly started moving in to invade my own personal places. The dry cleaners, my favorite café, the clinic, the tube, and finally the supermarket. Now I can no longer buy milk without being reminded of you. Sherlock Holmes you are everywhere, unmerciful even in death. Still the arrogant sod.

As always, the picture makes me come up short, halted by a phantom ache that starts in the leg and runs straight through to my core. Greg Lestrade almost knocks into me. He starts to protest but then I hear a sharp intake of breath, and I know that he's seen it too.

"Another one, then?" he asks pointlessly. I nod. There isn't much for us to do but avoid each other's glances and stare at your picture in silence.

This hasn't been a good night. Lestrade and I have just come back from a fairly uncomfortable round at the pub, where he struggled to come up with things to talk about while I drank myself into a fuzzy state. It was stupid really, doomed from the start. We were trying to act like old mates—as if we weren't just two strangers connected by _you_, united only in our goal to keep _you _happy and occupied and safe, and then united in our failure when we couldn't. He only invited me because Mrs. Hudson has been worried and I suspect that she's been calling everyone I know, begging them to entertain me a bit. I only accepted because I thought I should, in my attempt to heal, to claw my way back to healthy, functioning society. I realize now that since Afghanistan and our murder mystery adventures, I haven't operated in healthy, functioning society for quite some time. Clearly I need practice. It isn't easy for me to smile for the world, putting up pretenses I never had to use when I was with you. I haven't felt so tired since the war. And I've never felt so old.

Looking at Lestrade now, I wonder if he understands how I feel. I know that he cared-in his own way-and I know that he feels guilty for the role that he played in…the event. It's all over his face, in the lines carved around his mouth and forehead. His eyes are weighed down with heavy purple bags, probably from the stress of cases he has no hope of ever solving. Is this the face of a man dealing properly with grief? If it is, then I must look doubly awful.

I like Lestrade, always have, and I pity him. But I also hate him because of what he did to my friend. To you. And even if his punishment is that he has to miss you sometimes, I doubt he knows the ache that is grinding me down to chalk.

Lestrade looks at me awkwardly and I realize that I've been staring at him, glaring with zoned out, glassy eyes. I really had too much at the pub. After a bit of awkward shuffling between us, Lestrade says "The force is trying to track down these vandals—but actually, I think it's nice."

"Why is it nice?" I ask, slurring a bit on the first and last words. I sound like my sister. I hate that.

"I guess it's nice he's being remembered properly. As a great man and not a criminal."

"Right," I mutter. "You would say that now."

Lestrade's gaze slides towards the pavement, and his arms fold protectively over his chest. Probably shouldn't have brought it up, then. I want to forgive him, but after the way that he hurt you… Greg's a good man but it is probably too late for us to be friends.

"Sorry," I say softly. Sorry that I will be avoiding him socially from now on, but it's probably for the best. There's little point in making friends you can't keep.

"No John, I'm…" he falters. "We should do this again some time."

"Right," I say. "Some time." He walks away, leaving me alone on the street.

London is growing darker, illuminated only by streetlights and the rush of cabs that streak down the road. In the dim light I can hear the city better, a blend of traffic, laughter, and wind. I hear something else too, a metallic whirring noise like piano strings being scraped together. Or it might be my imagination, I'm sort of hammered.

The painting of you is still smirking at me in the dark, and the shadows only make it look more real. I'm not falling into this trap. I could easily talk to it, asking the obvious questions like "Why?" and "When are you coming back?", but that would be pointless. Talking to you at all is pointless. I'm really trying to stop.

I turn away because I don't want to look at the thing anymore. Maybe I should find it comforting, the way Lestrade does, but the irony of the whole thing is too much to take, and it makes me so angry with you. The pro-Sherlock art is a gift that came too late, proof that the tide of public opinion is always turning, and that you killed yourself for nothing after all. It's a reminder that we could have been okay. If you had waited.

I feel a sudden heat in my pocket as if something burning has dropped into my jacket. When I draw my hand back out I find a key, red around the ages and pulsing slightly. Its an odd, warming sensation, like holding a beating heart. For a minute I feel the tiniest bit better. By the time I slip the key back into my pocket, I forget it was there in the first place. Nothing left to do but stumble home.

%%%%

I have dreams about you sometimes, when the days are especially bad. Not nightmares but warm, lovely things about an ideal future, inconsistent with reality.

In my dream, I am coming up the stairs to 221B but the flat is occupied again, not just a living space but a home. I find you lazy on the sofa, curled up in your robe like an over-sized cat. (Cats are amazing creatures, or so the stories say. They have nine lives. They land on their feet, even after a fall.) Even though it looks like you are sleeping, I know that behind closed eyes your mind is alert and moving faster than a current of electrical energy. In your own time you snap to life, greet me brusquely, and brief me on the details of our next highly sensational case. It's business as usual and everything is okay.

If I ask you what the hell happened on the roof at St. Bart's you don't give me very much to go on.

"Why, Sherlock? Why? Why did you jump?"

"It was necessary," you say flatly, your face betraying nothing. You just flash me those damnable eyes, pale and penetrating, like white-hot lodestars. "I had to study the velocity of a falling body firsthand. Obviously." The explanation is always different and it never makes sense, because I could never fathom your cold, clever plans even in—quite literally—my wildest dreams. Then you smirk and turn back to your meditation and no amount of seething or shouting on my part will ever compel you to apologize.

And that right there is my miracle, Sherlock, the one I keep asking of you. I don't expect this to happen, of course, because I am a rational person. But every day that it doesn't, the disappointment is crushing. Each time fills me with resentment and I'm afraid that it is turning me into a person that I don't want to be.

When am I supposed to get over this? I wish that someone would give me a time frame of when I will actually feel better. I go to the clinic and the grocery store and I talk to Ella, and maybe someday that will be enough. Maybe it will take a few months before I can truly accept that my time with you is over, and not just on pause.

Life goes on but still it doesn't feel real, as if I am caught in a holding pattern, waiting. Waiting for something. Waiting for you.


	2. Chapter 1: Madmen

The Man Who Waits

Chapter 1: Madmen

One thing I learned while running with Sherlock is that London is a far more colorful and dangerous place than most people imagine. But isn't that why we are so attracted to it? It holds the promise of adventure, even if most people just use the city as a canvas to live and work, and never see more excitement than the odd pub brawl or football riot. To see things properly you need a guide who is equally as mad, and that's what Sherlock was for me. Because the things I've seen… In any shady side alley you might run across a deadly Chinese acrobat or a mythical giant that squeezes people to death. Your cabbie might be just another cabbie or he might turn out to be a psychotic chess master, and you won't know which until you've paid your fare. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if Jack the Ripper is prowling in Picadilly right now, disguised as a cop or a beggar or a rich boy in a suit. They are madmen and they are everywhere, turning London into their battlefield. A few months ago I found that danger intoxicating, back when it was still a game and I didn't realize how much I could lose.

But now the danger is invisible. I still feel it, but I can't see it. Now the only thing that calms my feeling of vulnerability is the gun in my pocket—the feeling of cold metal is a poor replacement for a partner in crime, but it doesn't half soothe my nerves. Harry and Ella are put off by this "behavior", as they call it. They say that if London makes me so crazy then I should just move.

I don't think that they quite understand. This city broke my heart, but I still couldn't bear to live anywhere else.

But London strikes again. Someone is following me, you see. A stalker. A madman. Honestly, I am being chased down High Street by a mysterious man in the middle of broad daylight. I can't tell you who this man is or what he wants, only that he is after me. Or I think he is. It's all very strange.

Our first encounter was in Speedy's this morning, as I was picking up a coffee and breakfast takeaway. I was standing in line, dead to the world, still wiping the sleep from my eyes, when a young man burst in and promptly knocked over the napkin stand. He was young and gangly with a swoop of brown hair, wearing an odd retro tweed jacket. It was the sort of tweed my father used to wear, an old pattern I haven't seen in at least 20 years. Maybe it's a youth thing, because god knows I don't understand much about teenage fashion these days. He did look the part of a mod.

I tried not to stare as the man floundered around in a flurry of napkins, trying to scrape them back into a pile. But a laugh escaped me when I saw him handing them back to the flustered cashier, the paper wadded up in a mess of mud and sugar. It was a ridiculous farce, the kind you see in a black-and-white movie, and just for a minute the scene gave me a tiny thrill of happiness. But then he turned around and something very strange happened. The man saw me and started, his face stretching into an elastic smile. He winked.

"Don't mind me," the man said to the cashier, emphasizing each word a bit too loudly. "I just seem to have lost my dog. Big, blue, answers to the name Tardis. She's always running off."

"Oh," said the girl awkwardly. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize, it wasn't your fault. I'm sure I'll find her." The man shot me a glance loaded with… some kind of meaning. "I'll be looking for her in the park around the corner," he crowed, "in exactly five minutes!"

I could swear he said it for my benefit.

Then he swept out of the café, managing to knock over the creamer as he went.

I did not go to the park in five minutes. I sensibly went to work without thinking much of the encounter, only that I had possibly just been on the wrong end of a very demented pick-up attempt. Or maybe the man was on something, judging by the severe lack of coordination and motor skills. In any case, it wasn't anything worth getting involved in. Three patients into my day and I had forgotten about it completely, lost in the haze of work and routine and numbness. All was fine until I got out of clinic and found the tweed man waiting for me.

Now he is following me down the street, practically waving his arms to get my attention. He might not be a particularly murderous stranger—not the kind itching to kidnap me or wrap me in semtex or something—but I still don't think I can handle any brand of crazy today. I am walking as fast as I can, but the damn cane is slowing me down. He is faster, bounding down the street like a puppy after the mailman.

"Watson!" he shouts. "John Watson!"

Army training kicks in and I stop cold. He has my attention now. My first instinct is that he is a fan of the blog, although I don't get approached by fans very often. Most likely they don't recognize me, even though my picture is on the blog. I mean, I am not that memorable. That is to say I don't have a striking figure or a £2,000 coat or, mercifully, a funny hat. But this man knows my face, which means he is either a particularly obsessive fan, a journalist, or something worse.

"Come along, Watson! We have things to do! Shenanigans to thwart! Basically, a universe to save and are you coming or not?"

Up close now, I see that he is young. Just a kid actually. He's not on drugs because his eyes are clear and clean; quick and perceptive in a way that's achingly familiar. There's something off about him though, like his body cannot contain him and he's waiting to shed his skin to become something else. That's an odd observation to make about someone, but this man gives the impression of being altogether too odd. Also, he's wearing a bow tie. _A blue bow tie. Do they still make those?_

"What are you waiting for? I have been looking for you everywhere! It was quite annoying, actually, but I am prepared to forgive you."

"Right, okay," I say, my hand defensively on the cane, just in case it needs to become a weapon. "But you did see me this morning."

"The sonic picked up some disturbance," he says. "I couldn't risk talking to you, in case we were being watched. It was smart of you to ignore me."

Yes, definitely mad. But I just can't resist. "Well it's a good thing you were so subtle about it," I deadpan.

He looks at me blankly. "I practice sometimes."

"Okay, so what did you want?"

The kid straightens his blue bow tie and flings the hair off his forehead.

He looks at me intensely, his brow heavy with some ominous tidings, and says "There have been some developments and now the whole universe is in danger. In very grave, very about-to-be-destroyed-by-fascist-aliens kind of danger. Don't ask, it was a bad day. Basically, I need to talk to Sherlock Holmes."

_Oh._

That knocks me off center, grinds my mechanics to a halt. Thankfully, there is a brick wall behind me and it takes most of my weight.

_Excuse me? _

"We need to go to Baker Street," he says, "I would give you a ride but as I said before, the TARDIS has run off. Which is an entirely different problem that we'll have to solve after we see Sherlock."

A rush of thoughts go through my head and the first is this: It's been some time since I've heard that name out loud, when it wasn't just echoing around the corners of my own head.

The second thought, and this thought is less muted, is more along the lines of _How dare he. _This isn't funny because this is my life. I don't appreciate cruel jokes. I don't appreciate being made to feel like a tit. I've been expecting a setback for some time, but I'm hoping this isn't the stupid thing that does it.

"No," I say, because that's really all I have to say on the matter.

"No?" the stranger asks tentatively. "Is this about that time with the deerstalker? He's not still cross, is he?"

"That's enough," I say.

"Cross my hearts, it was a misunderstanding."

"Stop it."

"Sue me, I like hats!"

"Just stop it, now."

I feel deeply sick, like I might vomit last night's beer all over the pavement. Or I might hit him, if he ever closes his mouth.

"And frankly, he's the one that should apologize. He is always so serious, our Sherlock. It was all in good fun and now is not the time to be holding grudges. Did I mention the very grave danger?"

"Shut up," I say. "Shut up."

The tone of my voice shifts naturally to something leaner and more powerful, the sound I used when I needed to pull rank and throw my weight around as a captain. It got results then, and it gets them now. I like to think of myself as a patient and reasonable person, but I am just so tired of being harassed.

The man closes his mouth obediently. For a moment it is quiet. I can hear my thoughts again and the traffic on the street and my own ragged breath. "Shut up and explain why you are here."

The man turns to look at me, really look at me for the first time. When he sees, his smile goes slack. This has been happening often lately, when people actually take the time to look at me and see what I've become, post-military and now post-flatmate. Usually, it makes them back off immediately, as most people don't want to deal with someone that is so irreparably damaged.

But not this one. He just pricks up his ears and moves closer.

"John?" he says, very seriously. "Are you alright?"

"Who do you think you are?" I ask. It comes out less of a threat and more of a philosophical question. Too bad, since I meant it as a threat.

"I'm a friend," he says.

"You're not his friend," I say. "He didn't have friends. You're here to mess with me...and I don't appreciate it."

"I am a friend," he insists. "To both of you…I thought…What's wrong?" He reaches up and scratches his cheek distractedly. I recognize the movement as a nervous tick, a response to stress. A vulnerability like this would usually be enough to soften me, and I feel one layer of defense shut down, deep down inside.

"John Hamish Watson," he says gently. "I'm here to help. Please talk to me."

I glare at him, my hands in stubborn fists at my sides.

"Or if I could just talk to Sherlock…"

"You can't talk to Sherlock," I snap.

"Why not?"

"He's dead! Sherlock is dead."

The words roll out easier than I was expecting. I look down at the cracks in the pavement and I wonder if I've broken something, like a superstition. Since I've finally said the words, does that make them permanent? When this conversation is over, can I just swallow them back down?

"No," says the stranger with a snort. "No, no. That's not possible."

"It is."

"No it isn't."

"Listen, I was there. Unless you have any information to…Just believe me."

He looks genuinely shocked, like someone who has been slapped, just before the sting settles in. I know that look because I've worn it, and suddenly I wonder if he wasn't a friend of Sherlock's after all.

I really hope not. I really hope he wasn't some obscure acquaintance from University that got caught up in Sherlock's coattails and then abandoned. (I always wondered if there were more people like me, past friends who got deleted from the mind palace..) If he was then I may have just caused this stranger undue pain, and I don't want to be responsible for somebody else's as well.

When he next looks at me I expect to see rage or denial, but his face is registering compassion. Boundless compassion, for me and my feelings. You don't expect that from a stranger, and a crazy one at that.

"It doesn't make sense," he says gently. "I saw him yesterday. Anyway, it's far too early. How could he possibly die now?"

A good question, that. "I don't know."

"Then something's wrong." The man suddenly starts to move. And when he moves he is all animation, turning on his heel and flipping his hair from side to side. His arms swing distractedly as he mutters something about _fixed points _and _causation_. His fingers squirm like sparklers. "How did he die, John?"

I shake my head no. We are not going to do this.

"Please, John. I am sorry, but this is important. What happened?"

I turn away because the madman is getting uncomfortably close, and I need a little breathing space right now. I turn my attention to the wall instead. I focus on the gritty texture of it beneath my fingertips, think of how the color and smell are a little like dried blood. The mortar is cracking in places, making way for little shoots of clover. There are fingerprints, from where someone else has touched it barehanded, leaving ghosts of dust and oil. It's stupid, I know, but lately I've been trying to clear my mind by focusing on the details of the tangible world. It's what Sherlock would have done, and for once I am beginning to understand why. Once you've counted and categorized each detail and filed them away, it is easier to detach from your emotions.

"John?"

The stranger is still behind me, waiting. Give him what he wants, John.

"Jumped off a roof," I say shortly.

"What?"

"I expect you would have read about it in the papers, but there was this standoff with a man who called himself Richard Brook. Which was a _lie_. He was actually a criminal mastermind named Jim Moriarty. Basically, he became obsessed with Sherlock, he invented this story to smear his name, and everyone believed it. Then Sherlock, he…I don't know. I guess he couldn't handle that."

"The roof at St. Bart's hospital?"

"Yeah."

He is thoughtfully silent. We both are.

After a moment, the stranger giggles. Whatever kind of reaction I was expecting, this wasn't it.

"No!," he says breathlessly. "I've been so thick."

He looks at me differently now, as if he wasn't really seeing me before. And then he smiles. He actually smiles. It's lopsided and almost cartoonish, and it doesn't show his teeth, but the grin is warm and alive. I don't know why the notion of Sherlock jumping off a roof could possibly make a stranger so giddy, and my confusion is clamping down on my feelings of rage. All I can do is look at him blankly, weakly.

"What's the year?" he asks.

"The year?"

"Yes, the year."

"2012."

The man flinches violently, as if he's been splashed him with cold water. His face is lit with too many emotions to count: panic, guilt, but mainly relief. And yet more laughter.

"I've done it again!" he moans. "I can't believe I've done it again! But that's certainly a relief."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've made a mistake," he says, as if that was the answer I was searching for. He pats me on the shoulder. "Just a mix-up. Sorry to waste your time, Sir. Happy 2012. It's a fun year, so try to enjoy it. Christmas especially is gonna be a firecracker."

And then he starts to walk away.

I should let the man go. He is mad, or possibly just messing with me, and there is no reason for me not to let him walk away in peace.

"Wait!" I call after him

I _should_ let it go, but I can't. I have to know more. I _have _to. What if in twenty years I look back and torture myself for letting the stranger slip back into the crowd. If he knows anything about Sherlock, anything at all, its worth enduring a bit more time with him.

"I don't understand!" I say.

When the young man turns around, he is wearing an expression of benign innocence. "Oh, I can't talk about the Christmas thing," he says. "Certainly can't mention any killer reindeer.. Forget I mentioned it."

Because I am on a mission, I am prepared to forget it just now, but I file 'killer reindeer' to think about at a later time.

"Not Christmas," I say. "How did you know him?"

"Who?" he asks sweetly.

He is not a very good actor.

"Sherlock," I repeat patiently. "How did you know him?"

"Oh I don't know him actually," he says. "Not yet."

"You can tell me."

"Spoilers! It's against the rules. I can't tell you a thing."

I didn't want to know before, but now I do. Now I have to. I am at the mercy of a madman, again.

The man huffs a sigh. "It's nothing personal. I'd really like to explain-"

"Then you should."

"-but I can't."

"Please." I try to smile, but I feel like my face is breaking.

"You can't force it out of me, so don't bother," he says. "Nothing you say will make me change my mind. Too much foreknowledge is dangerous and you, John Watson, are in plenty of trouble already."

I can recognize a threat when I hear one. At least, I thinks it's a threat, but everything in my head is so jumbled that it's difficult to tell.

Instinctively, my hands wrap around the gun in my pocket, the only protection I have left.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing!" he says. "I just don't want you to get involved in this. I have my reasons."

In one smooth movement, I draw my Sig Sauer L106A1 and aim it in the direction of his shoulder.

"Right, okay. I don't know what you're playing at, but if someone sent you hear to mess with me, you can show them what a bad idea that was. Now tell me. Who are you? And why did you contact me?"

In this moment, I can't tell you whether I am honestly prepared to wound a man in the name of information, but the urge is seductive. I can almost feel the metal tingle with authority and power and possibly misplaced vengeance. This might be stupid, but it feels quite good. I am in control. My hands do not shake.

The man looks oddly unimpressed. "Put it down, John," he says.

"Why?"

"Guns and I, we don't get along. I don't like them. Almost 700 years on this planet and they've never done anybody much good, don't you see that? Violence isn't the answer, especially not when it comes to me. I thought you would know better, John Watson."

"Well what can I tell you? I'm a soldier at heart."

"No you're not," he says."You're a doctor."

He fixes me with a gaze so stern and so sad that the gun wilts in my hand.

And then the madman wins. Weapon in hand, I break down and cry.


	3. Chapter 2: Trust Issues

The Man Who Waits

Chapter 2: Trust Issues

"You're a doctor," he repeats while brazenly approaching me, the crying man with the weapon. He is giving me an eloquent look, one that says _I understand. I'm sorry and I know how you feel. Life is so long and so hard, especially for people like us. _His empathy is not a balm; if anything, it increases my desire to shoot him.

He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder and pulls me in for a hug, not seeming to mind that my frozen gun is now buried in his ribcage. I wouldn't use it though, not really. This strange man has not proven to be a threat to anything other than my own psychological well-being. And my tear ducts, apparently.

The hug isn't just unwanted, it's very very awkward. He pats my back sporadically and makes peculiar whistling noises by my left ear. Not so soothing. He keeps at it long after my shallow sniffles have stopped.

"Yes, I am a doctor," I say eventually, when I am ready. It takes some effort to break the hug, to dodge those gangly arms. "Glad to see you've done your research, though, being my stalker and all."

"Oh, I didn't have to stalk you," he says. "I just knew."

A chill of recognition flows through me. _No. Don't say that._

"How could you tell?"

"Well, I can always tell another doctor," the stranger replies. "It's a rather neat profession if I do say so myself. You're welcome!"

He draws a white handkerchief out of his pocket, but I refuse it with a tight smile. The evidence of my cry is nearly gone anyway, and I don't feel like sniffing into a piece of lace will do much for my self esteem.

The stranger shrugs. "Every doctor has a bit of light inside of him that, when they were a kid, motivated them to want to help people and make the universe a better place. I think you need to rediscover that doctor-ey bit. It's just that you seem so lost, and in no real shape to heal anybody at the moment. I really wish I could help you, but there are rules, so I guess you'll have to help yourself. Are you feeling a little better now?"

"Right, sure," I nod, pretending that I understood any of that. "I'm all better."

"Good. Then you should probably go home now, because a lot of bad stuff is about to happen."

He makes a quick move for his pocket and I flinch as he draws what appears to be… a pen. Rather, it's the size and shape of a pen, one that doesn't seem to have a cap or a writing point, just a glowing green light at its tip. And it makes an otherworldly electronic noise that sends my chills into cosmic overdrive. In which case it probably isn't a pen at all. Maybe it's a motorized toothbrush.

The stranger brandishes the mystery object around in space, following it carefully with his eyes, almost hypnotically. He sweeps around the street with no regard to his surroundings, as if he was in a ballroom and the cars, parking meters, and chained bicycles were merely other dancers passing him by. It's like watching a little boy playing wizard with his wand, and I think that thirty years ago it would have had me absolutely enchanted. I'm torn between expressing my curiosity, demanding more answers, and just saying goodbye and getting the hell out of here.

Before I even open my mouth, he puts up a hand for silence.

"I can't say anything more to you, Watson," he says distractedly. "I just don't think the universe can take it. Sorry."

He looks it too. Sorry. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are filled with a genuine pity that makes me squirm. I'm sorry myself, for bothering to wake up today. Both my mind and body feel worn to the seams by this whole encounter, having been stalked, accosted, and reduced gracelessly to tears in under twenty minutes. Leaving this man alone might not be such a bad idea.

"Don't take it personally," he says, fiddling the pen with twitchy fingers. "You're a nice man, but I have to go look for my Tardis now, so there's really no reason for us to…"

Then pen comes straight at me, so quickly I think he might poke my eye out. I flinch as the blinking light zooms into my vision, nearly plowing into the end of my nose. The stranger does something to the device that makes it fall open, then starts tapping it furiously.

"Actually, never mind all that," says the madman, cocking his head in surprise. "This thing says we need to stick together."

"But you just said—"

"No, that was rubbish. Clearly what the universe actually wants is to force us together, maybe fulfill some grand plan. Why else would you have my key?"

"Excuse me?" I sigh, still reeling from the whiplash of this conversation. Why didn't I leave when I had the chance? That was the plan to beat.

"Why else would you have the key to my Tardis? In your pocket. Right there."

He uses the pen like a laser pointer, gesturing towards the side of my jeans.

"No, I don't have anything-" I start to protest. But as I bring my hand to my pocket I realize that yes, there is something in there. Like he said, it's a key, small and jagged, and it reminds me of heat and the sound of scraping chimes. I'd forgotten about it in the haze of last night, but I must have been carrying it around in my pocket all day.

The stranger stares at me in wonder, then shakes it off like a dog shedding water, his attention diverted.

"Alright, we're working together then, we can do this. I won't be able to tell you anything about what's going on, but it can work all the same. New plan is this: You need to trust me, Watson, and you need to start now."

"Oh yeah?" I find myself laughing and shaking my head in that sardonic manner that always spells trouble. I cross my arms as if to hug the last of my trust to my chest, to protect it from the pitiless world. "Why should I?"

"Because its important," he sighs. "Because sometimes the strongest thing someone can do is put their trust in a stranger and have faith that stranger knows what they are talking about. I know. What I. Am talking about."

I think about this comment for a moment. He's right that trust is important—in fact it is everything. I learned that vividly in Afghan desert, where nearly every man was a stranger, and the stakes couldn't have been higher. And they all carried guns. I had to trust that these strangers wouldn't turn on me, that they knew what they were doing, that their plans and orders were in everyone's best interest. If I hadn't subscribed to that delicate system of belief and confidence, I never would have survived my tour of duty.

I still got shot though, didn't I? That's the dark side of the memories which I can't ignore. I got hurt. And I still put my faith in that late genius-hero-best friend of mine, a decision which has burned me more brutally than any I've ever made. Maybe it's time I learned a lesson.

Trust may be in my nature, but I cannot hand it out to everyone. Not to this guy. He hasn't earned it.

"I think I'm going to go," I say softly. "Good luck." I steady my cane for the long walk home.

"Wait! Please don't!"

The madman screws his eyes up tight and puts a hand to his head as if he is in deep, painful thought. "Okay, I'm going to have to do something I really don't want to do. And I'm sorry."

I put my hand reflexively back on the handle of the gun. "Is that a threat?" I ask.

"Yes!"

Before I can run, draw my weapon, or do anything other than draw startled breath, the kid comes at me with a flying leap and our foreheads crack together like billiard balls.

It feels like you might expect, having your skull smack against someone else's. Like hell. On impact I see the classic stars and sparks of cartoonish head trauma, and it doubles me over, but then the shapes begin to form unexpected patterns in my mind's eye. They are crystal clear images, connected to knowledge that I didn't have before. I see the man in front of me and I suddenly know things about him, although the information is vague. I know that he is important and wise beyond imagination. I know that he has lost people close to him, so many, far more than me—and one person most recently that hurt him so much he could hardly take it, hardly carry on.

But most crucially, I know that I can trust him. No, I need to trust him. In this moment, all of my convictions melt in the face of this superior knowledge.

"What the…what did you…" I attempt, but the man is wincing and rubbing his head in pain just like me.

"We have to run soon. I think they may have found me."

I see vast plains of suns and stars and supernovas, like slides in a planetarium. I see broken moons and people crying in fear. And in the darkness I see one more thing, but it is shying away from my sight. If I really concentrate I can see that it is a round and bumpy piece of metal, like an oversized bullet on wheels, and it tastes like irrational hate. The thing is screaming.

"What's a dalek?" I demand weakly.

"No, no, no," my companion moans, stumbling to his feet. "You weren't supposed to see that bit."

"But it's-"

"Nope," he says. "Spoilers. Forget about it."

"But."

"We have to go now! Run!"

A shot rings out, but it does not come from my gun. Sig Sauers don't make that sound, thin and musical like a zap of electricity. The sound comes again from behind a nearby lamppost and this time I see an accompanying blast of red laser light.

Somebody is shooting at us with a laser gun. _A laser gun._

"What."

"Run, Watson! You have to run now!"

In the few seconds before the next blast, I try to angle my body to take a shot at the assailant behind the post, but I can't see anyone crouching there. It's just a lamppost, from every angle. So where is the shooter? How are they doing that? Where are they hiding?

The next blast rushes only centimeters from my head.

"Sorry, did I not mention?" yells the madman. "Run!"

"Okay, I can run," I mutter breathlessly. I take off as fast as my legs can propel me, dropping the damn cane but keeping the gun buried in my pocket.

"And stay away from the lampposts!"

We run. Through London we run with the sound of lasers behind us, past the cars and the shops and the people. Every few blocks one of us will pick an alley at random, and then we run through the shady passages and backdoor dwellings. It's wonderful to do this again, to feel my muscles flexing and the oxygen burning in my lungs. My leg doesn't even hurt, or at least not as much as it normally does.

If this wild running brings back memories, I don't have the time to be nostalgic. This is a chase, a life or death situation, and the pressure keeps my mind clear and focused. Maybe danger really does bring out the best in me.

After maybe fifteen minutes of running, the stranger suddenly comes to a halt. We are safe, hidden away in the depths of some obscure alley. Where the walls are not covered in shadow and dirt, they are streaked with bright paint and messages of defiance and hope. _We believe in Sherlock Holmes. _I don't look directly at the pictures. I can barely see them, my vision still swimming with stars and galaxies.

"Any questions?" asks my partner.

"Yes," I admit. "Too many. But first off, what's your name?"

He puffs himself up proudly. "You can call me the Doctor."

I aim for a withering laugh but I choke on it, my breath not fully back in my lungs. "I'm not calling you that."

'Why not?"

"Because it's not a name, it's a title! What is your real name?"

"Well normally I would tell you to call me John Smith, but you are already a John so that would be a bit confusing, wouldn't it? So just call me Smith. Or no, wait, I can do better. Call me Waldo! No, that's rubbish… Call me Matilda!"

"Smith it is then."

"Fine," he grumbles, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk like a little boy. It occurs to me that something like Waldo might actually suit him better than an ordinary surname like Smith.

"What do we do now, Smith?"

I just said "we", didn't I? It must be the adrenaline coursing through my body, a natural effect of being chased and shot at by invisible people behind lampposts. I must be insane to face a man who has antagonized and endangered me, and yet still feel compelled to help him out—but it's strong, this desire to follow him. Like Stockholm syndrome, or maybe just old habit.

"First we obtain a vehicle!"

I am about to struggle with hailing a cab, but Smith is gesturing to the row of cars parked along the street.

"Which one do you like?" he asks.

"What?"

"I like this one," coos Smith, pointing excitedly at a hot pink smart car. "Look how spiffy. And its clean technology, which is cool." It's boxy and impossibly little, probably too small to fit us both comfortably. I would have gone for the sleek Jaguar XKR-S myself, but I'd probably feel guilty stealing one of those. If the man is considering something as insane as car-jacking, then we might as well take an insane car.

"Are you going to pick the lock?" I ask.

Smith just grins and points the pen thing. The lock clicks open.

He casually swings the door wide and flashes the magic wand at the ignition, like a good wizard. And just like in the fairytales, there is a spark and a 50-horsepower engine purrs to life.

"Does that thing work on everything?" I ask.

Smith grins. "Everything but wood."

"Amazing."

It can't really be magic, but this has got to be some of the smoothest, most sophisticated technology I have ever seen at work. I can't believe the military didn't know about it, that Sherlock didn't know about it. I give the ragged madman a second glance over, wondering if he invented the technology or stole it from a top-secret lab. Either way, this Smith could be someone to be reckoned with.

"Simply amazing," I repeat. "Now where are we going?"

Smith scrambles into the passenger side, leaving the driver's seat open for me. I gun the engine of the little car—the stolen little car—and I flatter myself that I feel daring, like a poor man's 007. I haven't felt this way for months, so I need the practice. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Smith buckle his seat belt meaningfully.

"We have to find the TARDIS now," he says.

"Great, is that a weapon?"

"No, the TARDIS is not a weapon," he says, sounding scandalized. "She is so much better than a weapon."

"What is she then?"

"Basically, she's a blue police box. But she has a few…surprises."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, letting the blocks roll behind us. Smith is pressed up against the window, craning his neck and scanning the streets for some sign of his mysterious box. I drive contentedly, wondering to myself how I ended up in this car, on a new adventure, with this impossible person next to me. I try my best _not _to wonder if I am trapping myself in a pattern, or trying to recreate something that is gone. Dwelling on the past is not an option.

I still do have questions for Smith, though, and I have to ask them before I lose my nerve. Eventually, I take a breath and broach the subject of Sherlock.

His answer is blunt. "I can't tell you anything interesting about that."

"Are you sure? Because you seemed pretty insistent to get in touch with him. Were you friends? Or do you know something about Moriarty?"

"That's not important now," he says with a sniff, his lips clamping together.

"It could be, to me," I say. "I mean, do you have any information that could help me? Anything about his…"

I falter on it again.

"About his fall?" he suggests mercifully.

Out of the stranger's mouth, my feeble question sounds even more stupid. After all, what could I possibly expect him to know? Insight as to what caused my friend to jump? Details about how to take down the villain that probably orchestrated it all? He wouldn't know anything about that.

Maybe I'm just hoping, deep in my childlike unconscious, that he'll produce some information that is…miraculous. As if he really is a wizard who can't grant my heart's desire.

But I can see from the gentle pity in his eyes that it isn't going to be that. "No, I don't know anything about that. I don't know anything at all."

"Right, of course you don't."

Stupid me. He's not a wizard—he's an ordinary bloke with a fancy pen.

My delusion painfully uprooted, I bite my lip and keep my eyes fastened on the road. It's not like I was expecting a different answer. Much as the words may burn me, I know this is something I need to hear.

"We met a few years ago when I needed his help on a case," he says. "What can I say, Sherlock impressed me. You know how brilliant he was. I was looking for him now because I needed his help again, but clearly…let's just say my timing was off."

He says it very steadily, if a bit regretfully, and I know that I have no other choice but to accept what Smith tells me as true.

And, for some reason, I do trust him now. He doesn't seem like the type of person who would lie.


	4. Chapter 3: Escapades

**A/N: So, I've been unforgivably off the fanfic grid for quite some time, but now I'm back for a while. This story has an endgame now, so you can expect to see more regular chapter updates. **

**A big thank you to everyone who read, favorited, and alerted the story! Special thanks to reviewers **PaddySnuffles, zealousfreak27, Impractical Beekeeping, DoctorandAmyFan97, Dancing Eyes, AnniCyan, **and **pearlgirl97.

* * *

The Man Who Waits

Chapter 3: Escapades

"Tell me something, how do you misplace a bloody phone booth anyway? Really, how. Did it slip out of your pocket or did someone nick it from you when you weren't paying attention?"

I expect a comeback to that, or at least a seething glare, but Smith seems cheerfully unconcerned.

I'm just grumbling because it's been hours. Two hours, actually. For one hundred and twenty minutes we've been cruising the London blocks, canvassing the streets from Picadilly to Chelsea, searching for a box that my companion can only describe delightedly as "blue, the very bluest blue in all the universe". Hyperbole—apparently he's a fan.

But beyond that burst of nonsense, Smith hasn't been very much fun to drive with. Within the first five minutes he got bored and started pressing every button in the car just to see what would happen, and that includes the emergency lights. Now he is using his magical pen thing to fiddle with the built-in GPS. The dashboard is open and there are sparking, exposed wire heads everywhere, snaking around his neck and dangling dangerously close to my face. He'll get electrocuted if he isn't careful, and so far "careful" doesn't seem to be in his realm of interests.

Every few minutes he'll turn to me, smile like a cartoon, and say something. I rarely understand the things he says, but he always seems very chuffed about it. Sometimes he'll give me simple directions or ask me to hold things while I drive and that, at least, I can do.

It's awkward for me, a little. It feels like I am having an adventure, and I was pretty sure that I would never have one of those again. I'd come to accept that fact, that random adventures would no longer be a part of my straight and sensible life. So what if I long for them, the way a dog longs to slip its leash and tether? It still feels like an act of betrayal.

I still have a lot of unanswered questions too, about how and why this kid found me, and what he isn't saying, but he's not keen on explaining himself. I try to remind myself that in a perilous situation it is better to focus on the details in front of you. _The task at hand, John Watson. _I urge myself to focus._  
_

"Pass me the key in your pocket," he says. "I think I'm just about finished."

"You haven't even been looking, have you?" I toss the mysterious key to him with a sigh, which Smith catches and kisses in his hand.

"Oh, this'll be brilliant. I hope."

"And please, explain the plan to me again. What are we going to do with this thing once we find it? If it's a phone you need I'd be willing to lend you my mobile, so long as you promise not to open it up and do things to it."

"First of all, it isn't a phone booth, it's a police box from the 1950s," he says. He talks in rapid fire, his eyes never leaving the nest of wires. "And second of all, it technically isn't a police box from the 1950s, it just looks like one, and the phone doesn't even work. But more importantly, it is the only thing that can protect us now from the things that are trying to kill us."

Ah yes, of course, the invisible people with lasers. I've dealt with soldiers, ninjas, and all manners of terrorists before, but never with invisible people who had lasers. Sometimes I can't believe there was once a time when chasing a cab down Lauriston Gardens was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever done. I've come so far.

I'm still not clear on how Smith's phone booth will provide the protection we need, but I'm starting to suspect that it will turn out to hold either a protective force field or the contents of a safe house. Or maybe, with luck, an even bigger laser.

"And thirdly, I _am_ looking," Smith announces, "with this scrumptious TARDIS detector I've just invented. Are you ready? Get ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Here goes something!"Smith cries. He wraps a wire around the key and inserts it into the mechanics of the dashboard. I have exactly two seconds to brace myself for the worst.

At first nothing happens and the car coasts down the road safely. But just as I am about to let out my breath, I hear the engine tick and stutter. It's announcing our tiny pink car's transformation into a possessed machine of doom. There is smoke. And beeping. And deadly windshield wipers. Everything starts to shake violently as I desperately press down on an unyielding brake. That's not working, so I just try to navigate the street without running over any pedestrians or crashing into anything. I feel ridiculous. This isn't a real life occurrence, but something that would happen to a character in a slapstick '60s tv show—such a stupid way to die.

"What is happening?" I shout above the clamor. "And can you fix it?"

"I don't know! It's not as if I've tried this before!"

The car is hurtling forward, unstoppable, and I see with panic that we are approaching a busy intersection. There are pedestrians at the crosswalk in front of us, innocent people coming out of a grocery store with their shopping. Some of them are playing children, and I would sooner steer this car into a lamppost than injure any one of them.

I lunge hard on the steering wheel but still it is locked. My god, it is locked, we are going to kill someone. I can practically taste my own heart in my mouth.

In the passengers seat he is desperately pulling at all the chords. From the corner of my left eye I can see the magic pen, buzzing and zapping at everything in sight, the green light blinking like an emergency beacon.

"Do something! Make it stop!"

If anyone can stop it, he can. This whole afternoon has been one cockamamie escapade with secrets and dangers and running. I know the routine by now. This is the part where the hero intervenes and the dangerous situation becomes just one more fond memory of a thrilling close call. There can be no freak accidents, no death or real destruction, because I know that on some level my companion and I aren't playing by the normal rules.

We are only ten feet away from the crosswalk now, but by this point nearly everyone has noticed and cleared the way. There is only one person left, a small figure in green who has fallen behind from the group. It's a little boy, staring up at us with wide eyes.

"Sherlock!" I yell. "Do something!"

There is a whirring noise, a mechanical lurch, and all at once the engine dies. We coast gracefully to a stop, a few feet from the crosswalk, just in time for a red light. Everything slows, nearly to a standstill, as London freezes around me. Through my dazzled eyes it looks clear-cut and crystalline, just as beautiful as I remembered.

"Smith," I question, though I can barely breathe. I repeat it to myself. "Smith. Smith." Not the other one.

"Yes," he says, looking me over carefully. "If that's what you insist on calling me." He also looks exhilarated, which I suppose is only alright because we didn't actually hit anyone. His hair is a mess, his bowtie so crooked it might as well be vertical. I don't care what I look like, I just want out of the car.

"Needs a bit of refining," says Smith, as he climbs out of a vehicle that will never run again. "But how was I supposed to know that it wouldn't be compatible with sonic technology?"

I just attempt to breathe again and pry my rigid hands off the steering wheel. When I can move, I manage to get myself out of the driver's seat, cross to the sidewalk, and collapse into a sit. I duck my head in embarrassment, hoping that none of the passersby will associate me with the exploding pink car. Or maybe I just don't want anyone to read the real emotion on my face. Because I feel fantastic. Invigorated. I feel almost giddy, like a kid just off the roller coaster, and I need no one to tell me how wrong that is.

I watch Smith as he make his way around the front of the car, comforting the little boy who almost got run down. For such an awkward person, my new friend is a natural with the child. He gets down on his knees and looks the crying boy square in the eyes; says something I can't hear to make him giggle comfortably. It's quite a talent, dealing with kids. As a doctor, I've spent a good portion of my professional life trying to cultivate a proper bedside manner, but with kids it is always tricky. You can't be too patronizing or too dishonest, and every once in a while I catch myself being a bit too sappy with one of the younger patients at the clinic.

Now Smith is producing a multi-colored something from his jacket that looks like a toy, maybe a slinky, and the child's face is alight with wonder. The fellow is a pro. For this alone he is different from my last, lost friend, and I feel guilty for forgetting myself.

Smith casually sits down next to me without apology. He just gives a long whistle and points mockingly at my face, which is flushed almost red, and snickers like a school boy.

"What's funny?" I demand. I try so hard not to smile.

"Nothing," he says, with a measure of guarded affection, pinching the crook of my arm. "It's just good to see you again, Watson."

I search his face for an answer but the man is inscrutable, even while he's laughing himself to tears.

"See me again? We've known each other two hours."

"Well, that De'javu thing," he says weakly.

I sigh. "Are you ever going to tell me?"

"No."

"Well then, let's focus. You're the one claiming you're in deep trouble and that people are trying to kill us. I'd rather not be killed today. So do you have any other plans that don't involve a car?"

Once I get him settled down, we start discussing new plans of action. Or to be precise, Smith starts shooting out ideas at a mile per minute, and I am faced with the task of shooting them down one by one. A lot of them seem to involve incredibly high tech astronaut gear, NASA, and the whole topic of space in general. I don't get the relevance. Most of the time I have no idea what on earth he's talking about, but every once in a while he'll say something along the lines of "We could steal the Hubble telescope" or "Let's build a giant echo-location machine and rig it up to Big Ben!"

At one point I suggest that we fight the enemies off with a mutant superdog.

"Do you have one?" he asks hopefully.

"Umm, no."

"Now that would have been fun," he says. "But my experience with monstrous mutated animals is that they probably couldn't hold their own against this kind of firepower. Keep coming with the suggestions though."

Eventually Smith comes to an idea that he absolutely loves, but unfortunately it involves stealing a government surveillance satellite. He says he would make "improvements", of course, which is about the time that I break.

"Alright Watson, do you have a better idea?"

"I don't know," I say. "We could talk to people. Ask around. Go to the police. That's what people do when they lose something."

"Alright, let's go to the police," he says, with an enthusiasm that surprises me. "They probably have a lost & found that's at least halfway decent."

"Oh, okay. I guess we could."

I do not want to talk to the police. I only mentioned it because it _is_ what normal people would do, just not people who have baggage down at the station. Seeing Lestrade last night was awkward; I'd been hoping to give it at least a few more weeks before I had to contact him again.

I wrack my brain for a better suggestion. If it's surveillance we want, then the answer is obvious: Mycroft. Unfortunately, I am even more cross with him than I am with Scotland Yard, and I will be damned before I find myself crawling to the mercy that traitor. No, Mycroft is out...or at least the last resort.

But there must be someone else, someone to at least help us look. Smith clearly doesn't have any friends in the area, or why else would he have recruited me? Then again, I don't have friends myself...until I remember that I do. Indirectly, at least, I have a surveillance network of my very own. I have inherited the eyes of London.

* * *

My friend the detective had deep connections with the London homeless community, which he exploited a few times on our cases together. It was a brilliant notion, of course, to claim the eyes and ears of the hidden corners and back alleyways, he just never explained to me how he did it. Sometimes I wonder. Did he sweep in with his suit and cashmere scarf, throwing money and demands at some poor urchin's feet? Or did he sleep in the gutter for a few weeks, learning skills and building loyalties and investing in future allies? Somehow both alternatives seem equally likely, and it's not as if I'll ever find out.

All I have to do, then, is find a homeless person and talk to them. Which could be more awkward than I anticipated. What if they don't trust me or don't know what I am talking about? How can I tell if they are homeless? How much should they be paid? I don't see any of the familiar faces lining the streets, and I wonder what that means. Is it possible the network, in its streetwise wisdom, already knows about the danger?

There is one girl out today who doesn't seem to be in a hurry to get anywhere. She is very thin and wearing multiple layers of clothing and hugging close to the wall, which is how I spotted her in the first place. However, I see no cup of change in her hand, no scribbled sign pleading for charity. The girl is simply minding her own business, casually defacing a public property with a can of green spray paint. She probably isn't homeless, then, but that doesn't mean she can't be one of _his_.

Carefully I make my approach.

"Hello."

The girl smirks, not warmly or kindly, but just enough to let on that she's registered my presence. She's wrapped up in her work after all.

The thing she's making is quite beautiful which surprises me, because she is using canisters of spray paint. I don't know much about art, street art least of all, but I'd be the first to point out the grace with which she handles the bulky can. She's working with three shades of green, one light, one bright, and one in between, to sketch out clusters of leaves against the brick. The garlands form letters which form words, once your eyes adjust to the pattern. When I see what exactly it is she is writing, the art appreciation in my brain sort of short circuits.

"_I BELIEVE IN SH…"_

Alright then. Okay. At least I can be positive that I've got the right person. She must be a member of the network.

"So, you're the one that's writing these messages," I say, casually as I can, given the circumstances.

"Some of 'em," she says. "There are lots of copies of that mark. My stuff all has leaves in it and I only use green."

"Why though?"

"'Cos it's my trademark. Don't you like it?"

"I mean, about the message, not the leaves."

That's not the question I came here to ask, but it is something I've wanted to know for a while. I know precisely what Sherlock meant to me, but he was always very good at alienating nearly everyone else around him. For a long time I thought I was the only one who believed. Seeing this movement spring up now is difficult to reconcile, and I still don't know how I am supposed to feel about it. It's nice and all, it just would have been nicer three months ago.

The girl shrugs. "Lots of people are doing it now. Some of us, we owe him. Wasn't always a nice guy, but he did more for us than the cops ever did."

I almost tell her that I think his helping of the less fortunate came more out of his own necessity than a generous spirit, but I don't really have the heart to go into that now. I think she probably knew that anyway.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask instead.

She turns to look at me fully for the first time and I see a laugh hidden behind her bitten lip. "Yeah, of course I do. You're Watson, his boyfriend."

"What," I splutter. "No. No, I mean yes, I am Watson, but I'm not—was not—anything more than a friend."

From her look, I think she probably knew that too.

"You know what?" I say, "It really doesn't matter anymore. Doesn't matter at all."

She turns to smile at me, a little more receptive this time, and I realize that behind the hood, she is actually quite pretty.

"Watson, are you finished yet?"

I hear a voice behind me and oh yes, of course, it is that madman come to rush me some more. Smith comes bounding over to us and he doesn't even notice my scowl.

"Hello," he says, shaking the girl's free hand without warning. "I'm the Doctor, who are you?"

"Uh…Caitlyn." She gives me a sidelong glance for confirmation, but I merely shrug.

"He's a friend," I say. "I'm a doctor too, by the way."

"Yeah, I know."

Smith turns to the brick wall and sticks his fingertip into the wet paint, staining himself the color of fresh grass. He looks at his finger, looks at my face, then turns to his finger again.

"Interesting," he says.

"Interesting how?"

Smith smirks and switches his full attention to Caitlyn. "Did you do all this?" he asks. "You're very good, very…what's the word… expressive. Sherlock Holmes should be honored. I especially like this green swirly bit."

"Umm thanks?" she says.

"Now tell me Caitlyn, are you a fan of Vincent van Gogh?"

I watch in wonder as Smith proceeds to carry on a conversation about various impressionistic painters and their personal lives. An awful lot of dubious details crop up, like Pissarro's fake beard and Manet's supposedly fantastic book club, which lead me to believe that the man is simply making up charming lies. Caitlyn is thrilled of course, her face open, guard down. By the end, he has somehow convinced her to reconcile with her parents, move back home, and fulfill that childhood dream of going to art school. This is all before he finally gets around to the subject of the missing blue box.

"I haven't seen it," she says.

"But you'll promise to look for us?"

"Yes. If its on these streets then someone will find it. We have a right smart network going on, a genius set it up for us."

"Thank you," I say. "How will we know if—?"

"I'll leave you two a sign," she says, gesturing with the spray can. She goes back to the painting.

"Thanks, Caitlyn! It was nice to meet you!" Smith takes my hand and pulls me down the street, but I think the intimacy of that gesture is completely lost on him.

We run to the next corner, but then I stop and take back my hand. "What are we doing now?" I ask. "I guess the last plan didn't really get us anywhere. She didn't seem to know anything about your box."

"Didn't get us anywhere? But we got to meet a lovely girl called Caitlyn!"

He rubs a hand across his forehead. Beyond the buoyancy he seems stressed, and I again start to wonder how high the stakes are. "I suppose you're right though. I'm getting worried about the TARDIS. I shudder to think who could have gotten their hands on her. Let's talk to the coppers; you lead the way."

"They won't believe us," I say. I know this to be true, but I'm really more worried about the tightening in my chest.

"Maybe, but you'd be surprised," he says. "Have I ever told you about the time I ended up hunting with J. Edgar Hoover? He wasn't a very nice fellow, actually. We didn't get on at all. But the point is, he turned out to be brilliant at tracking fugitive Slitheen and more importantly, he made sure that nobody ever found out about the crisis. You see, you just have to have faith in people."

"You know what, now isn't really the time to be joking but, well—do you really think it's a good idea?"

"Yes" he says. "Come along, Watson!"

He holds out his hand once more, but I don't take it.

I look at Smith and try to imagine seeing him through Lestrade's eyes, or Dimhook's, or Anderson's. He looks ridiculous of course, with the tweed and the swoopy hair and the limbs that don't stop and the bloody magic wand pen. I barely take the man seriously myself, so there's no way the police will. It's not that I would be embarrassed to be seen with him, its just that I can't help but worry. He has an innocence about him, a specialness, and…_those people_, they _destroy everything. _

I take a deep breath and say, "You know what? I think I should do this by myself."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just, I think I should go in alone. For me. It has nothing to do with you. Just that I know these people. I've worked with them and I know how they think."

"Personal thing, is it?"

For a moment Smith looks a bit disappointed, but then he puffs himself up and straightens the bow tie under his chin.

"Alright, Watson. You go in alone, but don't dilly-dally. In twenty minutes time, I am coming in there for you. We really can't afford to waste any more time."


End file.
